


Everything

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Schmansgst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With spoilers up to the preview of 2.5 and involving very dubious consent. Athos gets drunk and d'Artagnan is the one to take him home.</p><p> <i>D’Artagnan surprises himself. His capacity to sin is far greater than he'd thought.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything

"You should get him home," says the barkeep. "He'd already had a skinful before you started drinking with him."

D'Artagnan heaves the man up from the table, clutches at his waist and holds his arm in place over his shoulder. "Come on, Athos. Help me out a little." This is not his job, and he's not in the mood for dealing with him.

On the way back, his anger builds. He loathes seeing his friend brought to such a level. Athos is a joy to behold when he's in control of himself: self possessed with an arrogance that's tempered by vast amounts of quiet kindness. He's a marvel with the sword and quick witted to match. He is _everything_ that d'Artagnan aspires to be, but like this, he’s no better than the gutter creatures that lie around in their own filth inside the Court of Miracles. He's often surprised that Porthos, who'd managed to escape the slums, has so much time for a drunkard.

"I need a piss," slurs Athos, once they are in his chamber.

He's so inebriated that he can't even manage to unfasten his clothing, and d’Artagnan is forced to unbutton and unlace him, hefting him to his feet and even holding his cock as he pees into the pot. 

"I hate seeing you so useless," he says as he lets him fall backwards onto the bed, half naked, his dignity in tatters.

No answer is forthcoming, and d’Artagnan’s about to leave the man to his shame when a tendril of something rotten unfurls in his belly, spreading through him like fire.

"Athos," he hisses, shoving at his shoulder, trying to save him at the last minute. "Cover yourself up."

Again there is no response and, shaking with fear, d'Artagnan straddles his drunk friend, freeing himself from his breeches and gripping his own cock which feels hot and wrong in his trembling palm. He begins an unsteady stroke, muttering promises that he'll limit his actions to just this. He’ll not do anything worse.

The fire, however, burns more fiercely and he slides a finger between Athos' lips, touching the scar that has always fascinated him, then swelling to an iron hardness at the gentle suckling which follows. His right hand streaks across his erection, he's wet with depravity, and as he reaches his end, he falls forward and rubs himself off against Athos' flaccid cock, spending over him in spasms of guilt.

In a complete panic he cleans Athos with a wet rag, tidies his clothing and then runs away from the scene of his crime. This didn't happen. It _wouldn't_ have happened if Athos hadn't been in such a state. It's Athos' own fault.

\--- 

D’Artagnan wakes full of fear, disgusted by last night's actions. The drink was to blame for it. He would never have performed such a vile act if it hadn't been for the excess of wine.

Living at the garrison allows him no room to hide. If Athos remembers what happened then d’Artagnan will have little choice but to brazen it out. He’ll laugh it off and say it was the behaviour of two drunk friends, both needing a release from the tortures of unrequited love. 

His story seems feasible enough, but as it turns out, he has no need to use it. Athos is hungover and pathetically grateful for the small mercy of waking in his own rooms.

"Thank you, d’Artagnan," he says quietly. "I imagine I would have been sleeping in the streets if it wasn't for your kindness."

"Wouldn't be the first time," guffaws Porthos, slapping Athos heartily on the back and laughing even more at the resultant wince of pain. He grins at d’Artagnan. "We've found this one passed out all over Paris."

"Don't forget that time in le Havre when he almost set sail for the Indies," laughs Aramis and he punches Athos affectionately. "You need to curb your drinking before we lose you to the navy.”

Athos growls at them and then clasps d'Artagnan's arm. "Thank God I have you." 

He’s smirking, but there’s something genuine about his words which causes d’Artagnan to ache with guilt. He lays a gloved hand on top of Athos' and makes a silent pact, then and there, never to betray his friend again. Even drunk, Athos is the best of men.

\---

It is true. Athos is so far _above_ all other men that d'Artagnan cannot stop thinking of him. Barracked with a company of soldiers, he’s never alone, but even now, with them snoring all around him, his hand still creeps downward to tug at himself. He tries to think of other things--the sweetness of Constance's cunt, the pillow of her breasts--and yet his mind will not shift from the feel of Athos' body beneath him, taut with muscle yet pliant and warm. He comes quickly as he fantasises over using him as a receptacle. It’s both a relief and a misery.

\---

As Athos' drinking grows steadily out of control, so, incrementally, does d'Artagnan's fevered imagination. He stays away from the man as much as possible, indulging only in private games, but inevitably another occasion soon occurs when he has to pick Athos up off a tavern floor and take him back to his lodging house.

D’Artagnan surprises himself. His capacity to sin is far greater than he'd thought. He suffers no fight with his conscience and, after checking that Athos is out cold, he strips him and masturbates over him once more, rubbing his cock into every nook and crevice and, this time, urging Athos to erection with determined thrusts of his body. 

He's in a frenzy, indulging himself in every way possible, praying this will be over, at the same time longing for it to last just a little longer. Finally, in the heat of this illicit passion, he kneels between Athos' thighs, sucking him into his mouth, laving him, loving him with his tongue, his hand working furiously between his own legs as he brings them both off.

It is another soul searching walk home. He can taste Athos bittersweet in his mouth. He can still feel him warm and aroused beneath him. As he turns into the alleyway that leads to the garrison gates, he reaches the terrible conclusion that, given half a chance, he would lie with Athos, as unconscious as a corpse, and do these things to him forever. The drink is indeed a demon, offering him all too many opportunities.

Coming across a cut-purse, who’s trying to steal from one of the local whores, d'Artagan takes out his self-hatred on them. Justice prevails, swift and merciless, and woe betide any other wrongdoer in the vicinity.

The whore looks at him with fear in her eyes, and there is no offer of a free fuck, as there would normally be in return for such a service.

\---

When Athos goes missing, d’Artagnan becomes frantic. His first thought is that the man has remembered everything and run away in shame, but this is not how Athos would behave. He’d discipline d’Artagnan privately and, depending on his level of disgust, would use either words or fists on him. Even for such a thing as this, d'Artagnan suspects the former would be Athos’ weapon of choice.

At first, Aramis and Porthos are unconcerned over their friend’s disappearance, but once the third morning has arrived with neither sight nor sound of him, they too are convinced that something is wrong. Treville is less worried, but, as the day progresses, even he is persuaded that this is likely to be more than the usual bender.

The pile of letters in Athos’ room lead the four men to his lands at Pinon where they find him in a very low state. They battle successfully to save his people from ruin, but the weight of his guilt becomes another cross to bear and, now returned to Paris, Athos buckles under the strain, falling prey to the lure of the bottle, with d’Artagnan, once again, having to drag him home to bed.

There is a pull between them that d’Artagnan cannot resist. He loves Constance more than the world and its entire contents, but to be settled against Athos, nuzzling into him and pleasuring him with his mouth, brings with it a sense of comfort that does not compare with anything else. What he is doing is despicable, but here, in this haven between the sheets, it does not seem wrong, and he finds it all too easy to convince himself of such.

“Anne.”

The whispered groan does not deter d’Artagnan the way it should and, instead, he works harder, concentrating on Athos and bringing him to a slow completion. He looks up at the feel of a hand in his hair and is frightened to discover confused eyes staring down at him.

“D’Artagnan?”

“I’m sorry.” 

He curls away in shame, but Athos hauls him upwards, silencing him with a firm kiss to the lips. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he says earnestly. “For thinking that I’m worthy of this.”

D’Artagnan gasps as Athos wraps a fist around his cock, pulling at him with steadying strokes. He can feel the callouses of a swordsman's grip and it excites him all the more to be taken in hand by someone so strong.

“You’re worth everything,” he says and means it.

 

\---end


End file.
